Dear Mum and Dad,
by LilyAnaRose
Summary: For a school assignment, Harry is supposed to write a letter thanking his parents for helping him. But his problem is that he never met his. Pre-Hogwarts. Rated T because I'm a paranoid mess
1. The Letter

Disclaimer: I'm a brown haired 15 year old American girl; so therefore I am not J.K Rowling.

A/N: Hello once again! So this idea came to me while asleep, I know, I get a lot of ideas that way. So anyway, just so you guys all know, I'm American so I'm doing my best to try and make it sound that they are British with little to no mistakes, which probably won't happen. So just tell me if I made a mistake and I'll try to fix it in the future. Ok so I'll stop rambling, here's the story. Also I need a beta also, so if anyone's up for the job….

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The small 10 year old boy, dressed in clothes that seemed to swallow his skinny frame, stared blankly down at the sheet of paper in front of him, his pencil lay forgotten at the edge of his desk. His emerald eyes, hidden behind wire-framed glasses, were clouded over in thought. His messy, jet black hair stood out against his pale skin. The boy looked up from the paper, and around at his classmates, all scribbling on the paper without a second thought. He switched his gaze to the window ahead and subconsciously traced the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, just under his fringe. After several moments of staring blankly out the window, he readjusted his gaze to the paper in front of him.

'_Since you are graduating Primary school, I would like all of you to write a letter to your parents, thanking them,' _the words of the teacher rang out in his head. To his parents? What parents? To him, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were nothing close to what one would call a parent. Wasn't a parent supposed to be kind, loving, caring? Nobody had ever showed him anything like that, nobody he could remember at least.

Parents, he thought again. Mum. Dad. No those words were to foreign, they sounded so strange in his head. He set his hand under his chin and sighed, the sound was drowned out by the scratching of multiple pencils. Again, he lifted his head and scanned the classroom. His teacher was at her desk, scribbling something on a paper, setting it aside in a pile, then moving on to another. His cousin, Dudley, was slowly writing something down on the paper, his pencil engulfed in his beefy hand, his face screwed up in an uncharacteristic look of concentration. This almost made the boy laugh, watching his cousin struggle with such an easy task, but then he realized, wasn't he having just as much trouble with it too. Sure, they were both for completely different reasons, but still; at least Dudley had _**something**_ on his sheet.

The boy looked at the clock overhead. Half past one, he read, he had been sitting here for no more than ten minutes, not doing anything but staring at a sheet of paper. He needed to get something down in thirty minutes. He sighed again, except this time it was barely audible. He snatched the pencil from its residence at the end of the desk and began to write:

**Dear Mum and Dad,**

He stopped. How weird it felt just to write those words, he couldn't imagine how weird it would be to say them, but then he remembered; he would never get the chance. He started at those four words, getting lost in his own thoughts.

Dead. That was the first word that came to his mind when he thought of his parents; the second: Gone. Never anything the other kids thought of. Not love. Not warm cookies. Not hugs and kisses. Not even a goodnight. None of those, just those two words: Dead and Gone.

The small child allowed himself to get deeper into his memories, trying to think of them. Were they nice? Did they love him? Would they be proud? Or ashamed? The thought of disappointing his parents made the boy cringe. He dove deeper into his subconscious, squeezing his eyes shut so tight it hurt.

First came the scream, a woman's, he thought. Then came the light; the familiar, green light. Last came the pain. A pain that made his eyes snap open and tear up. It felt like a knife, he thought, a knife splitting his head open. The vision, if you could call it that, was familiar. It was the dream, the dream that had haunted him for years, always the same. His hand immediately shot up to his forehead, his scar to be particular.

As he rubbed his scar, his eyes immediately found those two words. Mum. Dad. Those two people he never met. Those two people that died in the crash. Those two people who will never know him, their son.

Suddenly and inspiration hit him. He relaxed his hand, which tensed in pain, reset his pencil to a more comfortable position, and began to write:

**I know that you will never get this letter, you will never read these words, I know that and it's ok. Most likely, this letter will end up in the fire, while Dudley's is tacked up to the refrigerator, but I'm used to it. There are so many things I want to ask you, Mum, Dad. There so much I don't know, so much I need to know. But see that's the thing, I know I'll never know, you'll never be there to kiss me when I get home from school Mum. You'll never be there to talk about football and rugby Dad. But that's ok. I know you didn't choose to leave me on purpose, I know that you didn't die on purpose. But since I don't know things about you, you don't know things about me. I'm 10 mum, dad, it's been 9 years since you've seen me last; 9 years is a long time, and I've changed, grown. I got a scar that day, did you know that? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said that it was from glass, glass from the car. I don't know what you look like, were you pretty mum? Were you strong dad? Did either you wear glasses, like me? Do I look like either of you? The Dursley's don't have any picture of you. I don't know why, they won't tell me. But Mum, Dad, to make up for the things I don't know, there are something's I do know. It isn't a lot, but it will do.**

**I know that you are my family, that you love me. I know that, with you, I felt safe. There's a feeling, I just realized, that when you think of someone, you feel warm. That's how it is when I think of you. I know that I love you, that even if I can't remember you, I'll never forget you.**

**I love you Mum and Dad, and I'll miss you.**

**Your Son,**

**Harry James Potter**

Harry dropped his pencil and re-read the finished letter. He looked at that last sentence. Never had he said those to someone. Never had anyone said that to him. They were strangers to him, those emotions. Those words were foreign, like every single word in that letter. But he knew he was writing from the heart, that everything in his heart was a stranger. He stared at the letter, his hand trembling as he re-read it over and over again, letting the words wash over him, their full meaning taking effect bit by bit. Right when he read the last line for the fifth time, a drop landed next to it, a tear drop. Harry raised a hand to his cheek and it came back damp, he was crying, not a lot, but a little. He discreetly wiped them away before anyone could notice, if Dudley or his gang saw this, he'd never hear the end of it.

He heard the teacher before he saw her. He heels were clicking on the floor, stopping at each desk, picking up the students papers. She read a little, saying complements about the students work. His body tensed, it wasn't that he was scared. He knew he didn't do the assignment correctly; there wasn't a mention of a thank you anywhere in those lines. No, he wasn't scared; he didn't want her to read it, not while he was here.

The clicks were getting closer. Five students away. Three more. He was next. He saw her shoes stop in front of his desk, a hand reached out expectantly. When he made no move to give it to her she softly said his name, "Harry," her voice was gentle, "can I have your letter?" He looked up into her age-worn face, not meeting her eyes. After a few seconds he placed his letter in her hand; she took it, placed it on the stack, and scanned it.

After what felt like a lifetime to Harry were only a few seconds in reality, she moved her gaze to Harry. "Very good, Harry." She said softly. She tried to sound normal but Harry finally looked in her eyes, and they betrayed her.

Her kind, warm brown eyes showed sadness and sympathy. Harry didn't want that sympathy, he wanted to yell at her, tell her he was ok. He wanted to tell her he went 9 years without any sympathy, and that he could 9 more if he had to. In reality he knew he couldn't, in reality he needed someone, anyone, to show him that he was loved. He didn't want to face that reality.

He tore his eyes away from hers and looked down at the desk, pretending to be fascinated by the smudges that littered its face. He kept his gaze down at the desk long after her heels clicked away.

When he finally lifted his head from his gaze at the table, he immediately made contact with Dudley's smirking face. Harry knew that look, he knew what it meant, and, being too tired to retaliate with a glare of his own, he promptly dropped his head back down to presume looking at the desk.

When the bell rang, Harry shot up out of his seat and all but ran for the door. As soon as he untangled himself from the giant mass of kids spilling out onto the sidewalk, he sprinted all the way to Number 4, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the letter, Dudley and his gang, and most of all, the whole world.

He didn't hear Aunt Petunia's shrieks of 'GET OUT NOW!' when he sprinted through the house in his dirt covered shoes, leaving prints on her newly cleaned floor. All Harry did was run into his cupboard, slamming the door behind him. He flopped on the bed, burying his face in his pillow before the tears broke the surface. That is where Harry James Potter, The Boy Who Lived, sat for a good two hours. He fell asleep, crying out all the emotions that he oppressed for 9 years, all the hurt, all the sadness, all the loneliness, and all the emptiness he suffered throughout the years poured itself out of this one special little boy, and onto the old, worn down pillow case which hid his face. Soon after, Harry fell into a sleep filled with green lights, women screaming, flying motorbikes, and two people, one a women, with beautiful emerald eyes, so much like his own; the other, a man, looked like a replica of the young sleeping boy.

Harry James Potter slept, only to have his dreams woken up by his Aunt, screeching at him to start supper. When he awoke, the dream was nothing but a distant memory.

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Everyone was gone; the once busy halls were evacuated hours ago. Not even the janitors were mulling about, they finished cleaning an hour ago. Yes, everyone was gone, everyone, with the exception of Louise Curry. She sat in the same chair she had sat on all day, the only thing different was the mug of lukewarm tea, that sat forgotten on the side of her desk.

The reason Louise sat there was simple. She was staring blankly at a letter, a letter one of her students wrote. Harry Potter to be exact. She had read over it at least 20 times to where she could recite it word for word. She had stopped reading it when the last janitor told her that he was leaving. She spent the last hour imagining this boy's life, how when she first read it there was a single tear drop next to the last sentence. She avoided letting her own dampen the letter, instead wiping them away the minute they surfaced.

How could a child write this? She questioned herself over and over again, and over and over again she got no answer. She always believed Harry Potter was smart, yes, he was quite an intelligent boy, always doing his studies, a bit too quiet for a 10 year old, never had she seen him talk to anyone unless required.

Could he be one of those children? The abused, outcast ones that never have friends? This thought entered her mind way to many times for her liking after reading this letter, but she always cast it aside as rubbish. She has seen his cousin, Dudley, a spoiled kid, if she had ever seen one, and young Harry was the complete opposite.

She pulled her gaze over to the stack of papers beside her, and then to the clock, seeing the time, she sighed. Richard would be home in a few minutes and she had not even started supper. She'd have to finish grading these at home he resigned. All thoughts of Harry discreetly slipped from her mind as she stacked up to remaining papers, leaving Harry's behind, picked up her, now cold, tea. She exited the room without a second glance, switching the lights off.

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"Mum, Mum, MUM!" came the cries of excitement from Number 4. "Mum! Come on Mum! My letter's here!" a pudgy boy came waddling into the kitchen, a crumpled envelope engulfed in his beefy hand.

"Didn't see yours, freak" the boy sneered before roughly pushing the other boy into the cupboard he was emerging from.

Harry James Potter righted his taped-fixed and pushed himself off the dust covered floor, rubbing his bruised bottom. Harry walked carefully out of the room, making sure there were no other obstacles in the way.

Once the coast was clear, he made his way into the kitchen, already hearing Aunt Petunia weep in joy on how fast her 'little Dudders' was growing up. He stopped in the doorway to look at the spectacle in front of him.

Aunt Petunia had Dudley in a tight embrace the letter clutched tightly in one boney hand.

"A-And t-then yo-you'll be in highs-sch-school, and then y-you'll be i-in a u-n-univer-sity. Oh-oh my dud-dudley-di-didi-dums-s. oh a-and…" but it took Harry all his control not to gag in disgust, but it got to be too much, so Harry quickly left the house; leaving a sobbing Aunt Petunia and a struggling Dudley in the kitchen.

When his feet landed in the perfectly clean hallway harry slowly made his way to the door, his eyes closed, wanting what Dudley said to be true.

Harry opened his eyes, his heart pounding. Suddenly it stopped, there it was, the letter, Dudley was lying. But piece of information this got the best of Harry's curiosity.

Why would Dudley lie about this? Wouldn't the better option be to bring the letter in and use it to ridicule him in front of everyone? Harry had no idea why Dudley didn't take the letter, but for some reason, a wave of suspicion washed over Harry as he reached down at the letter lying face down at his feet.

This time Harry thought his heart really stopped, he couldn't hear it, he was pretty sure he was holding his breath too. With a shaky hand he turned the letter over and the whole world stopped.

This wasn't it, No what was this, a joke maybe, he never got post, why would he get one today of all days. The writing wasn't his.

With a split second decision, Harry clutched the letter in an iron grip, and bolted out of the door, onto the manicured lawns of Privet Drive, having one destination in mind.

The playground was deserted, just the way he liked it, not anyone around to tease him, nobody there to whisper when he walks by, nobody there to bully the weird kid. Harry sat down on a hard swing, on question running through his head. _Who sent the letter? _No answers came to mind, so after a huge inner battle, Harry opened the letter, and looked inside.

There was a simple sheet of paper inside. He didn't know what he was expecting, some sort of secret wonder, a treasure of some sort. He laughed off some of his nervousness, the sound echoing throughout the empty playground.

He reached in a trembling hand and extracted the letter from the envelope. The world slowed down again as he opened the folded sheet of paper and began to read:

**Dear Harry,**

He jumped at the mention of his name used so formally by a stranger, how did this person know him?

**What make you think we would never get you letter? The world works in wonders, y'know.**

It was then when the letter fell out of Harry's numb hands, fluttering down to land the hard dirt below.

He looked at the letter flowing lazily down to the ground, his mind was working so fast that he couldn't make sense of anything in the jumble. One thing was for sure, the writer was no stranger.

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A/N: Oooooooo. Evil cliffhanger, please don't hurt me. I think that this was a good place to leave off. Now do me a huge favor will you. Move your mouse over that button that says 'review', yep that one right there, now click it. Yep that's it. Now will you _please _write a review for me? tell me whatchya think, eh? C'mon you could wirte anything, except no flames, ok, and thanks for taking the time to read my writing, until next time.

Frissa :]


	2. This is Goodbye For now

Disclaimer: I'm a brown haired 15 year old American girl; so therefore I am not J.K Rowling.

A/N: ok so I am very sorry for not bringing this chapter sooner. I had originally wanted this story to be a one-shot but, thanks to all my amazing viewers, I made a sort of epilogue. But that doesn't excuse my lateness. My excuse: I have suffered a terrible case of writers block on this, but hey, haven't we all. I have been working hard for school, exams, making money, and just been all around busy. HERE IS THE FINAL CHAPTER OF 'DEAR MUM AND DAD'. (caps make emphasis)

Dedication: I decided to dedicate this story to my friends who have been trying to help me find who stole my itouch and all those who reviewed, it made my day, and trust me, I needed it.

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Last Chapter: _He looked at the letter flowing lazily down to the ground, his mind was working so fast that he couldn't make sense of anything in the jumble. One thing was for sure, the writer was no stranger._

Chapter 2

_3 weeks earlier_

Light flooded the room with a click; it bounced off the polished linoleum floor, making the surface shimmer. The desks were effected in the same way, making the room shimmer with the first light of the day.

Heels clicked against the shimmering floor, echoing in the room, which recently was, deprived of life. The clicking stopped. There was a sudden roll of wheels as they traveled smoothly across the floor. A squeak echoed as a sudden weight was placed on a chair and another roll of wheels traveling back to their original place.

Mrs. Louise Curry set her plain, black workbag down on the desktop and hung her small handbag across the back of her computer chair. She took out a stack of letters that were written the day before. Her eyes travelled up to the clock that hung above her on the opposite wall. It read 7:50, she let out a sign, her students would be coming shortly and she needed to finish these letters. Her eyes found the large stack of letters, the ones her student wrote to their parents just the day before, and then to the equally large stack of envelopes that sat there; waiting to be sent out to their recipients. She let another sigh escape her slightly parted lips. She picked up a blue pen and, beginning to write the first address on the stark white envelope, she set to work.

8:00 met Louise with a room full of the majority of her students and a freshly sealed stack of letters. She waited for the last of her students to come through the door before she stood up from her current position at her desk, walked to the front of the room, and began the lesson.

As the children gave her their undivided attention, a sheet of paper lay neatly on her desk. That single sheet of paper contained a list of addresses. Out of all those addresses, one wouldn't receive his own letter. Yet his name was somehow crossed off, and a letter addressed to him in black ink, barely blending in with the blue ink that was written on the letters around it.

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_Present_

He didn't know how long he sat there, on the cold, hard, highly uncomfortable swing. However, he had a faint idea that, judging by the brightness of the sun and the loss of feeling in his lower half, it had been a good hour and a half.

"Just staring at it won't make it do anything y'know."

His head shot up at the intruder's voice and his emerald eyes found a small girl standing in front of him. She had caramel brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders in soft ringlets. Her deep brown eyes corresponded with her hair beautifully and gave its receiver a sense of warmth and understanding. She had a soft pink sundress on that complemented her pale skin, which shone in the afternoon light. She was a petite girl that looked about eight but he couldn't assume that; people thought the same about him since he was too small for his age.

Her brown eyes were looking at him for an answer, no, not looking, expecting. He realized he was staring at her so he cleared his throat awkwardly, gripped the chains that held the swing to the bar above, and spoke in a shaky voice.

"P-Pardon"

A small smile appeared on her face, revealing small, pearly white teeth; she replied with the same soft, reassuring voice she spoke with before.

"I said, 'Just staring at it won't make it do anything'"

His eyes glanced at the letter that lay at his numb feet, its white exterior contrasting with the brown dirt it lay upon. His eyes traveled back to the stranger when he heard the sound of her footsteps coming closer. His eyes traveled with her as she occupied the swing that hung next to his own.

He was astounded. Not only did she _talk_ to him, but she was actually sitting next to him on her own will. No one had ever done either of those things to him. The only people that talked to him were his teachers and the Dursley's; of course the latter only insulted or yelled at him. The kids at school talked _about_ him, but they only did so to make fun of him. He could hear them, even if they believe he can't.

"Why don't you read it?" there was genuine curiosity in her voice. Nobody ever talked to him like that, nobody.

He didn't answer, but it made his mind start working from its previous numb state. Why didn't he read it? Isn't it just a letter? No. He knew that it wasn't just any letter, even though he never got mail, it wasn't just any normal letter. There was something, something m-magical about it. But he knew no such things existed; Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia told him that countless times.

"Well?" her voice, once again, tore him away from his thoughts.

He focused his gaze on her as she bent down to the retrieve letter that still lay innocently on the ground. He tightened his grip on the chains as she, once again, occupied the swing that swayed from the sudden movement of its current resident. She made herself comfortable, straightened up, and smiled as she held out the letter that she gently clasped in her petite hands. He duly noted that she had been very careful not to look at the contents of the letter, and he silently let out a breath that he didn't know he held while he relaxed his hands to a point where they would return from the ghostly white colour they had to their normal colour.

He shyly took the slightly wrinkled paper from her outstretched hand and slowly brought it to his lap, which was suspended by the swing seat underneath him bottom. He looked at the slightly dirty exterior of the letter that lay on his pants, which hung around his small frame loosely, much like the rest of his clothes.

He lifted his head for what felt like the billionth time to see the smiling stranger next to him. Her smile was burned into his mind so even if he closed his eyes he would see the sight in front of his slightly turned body.

"Well?" she prompted again, this one having as much effect as the last one had on him; little to nothing.

Her sigh was barely audible.

"You have two choices," She stated plainly, "you could walk straight over to that rubbish bin over there, "she pointed at the wire mesh bin that stood a fair distance away to his right, "and throw it away before reading anymore of the letter." Her hand now gestured to the letter that fluttered feebly in his lap from the light breeze. She paused to take a breath.

"Or you could open that piece of paper right now and read what's inside of it." She smiled a reassuring smile before hopping down to the ground that belonged to the world he forgot even existed. She dusted off her hands and flatted her slightly rumpled dress before turning to him, her brown eyes radiating waves of warmth on his numb skin.

"You could either live with the curiosity that would come from never reading the letter, or you could satisfy it. It's your choice." She turned her back on him and started walking towards the gate, curls blowing slightly in the small breeze.

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Long after she was gone from view, her words still played over in Harry's head. _You could either live with the curiosity that would come from never reading the letter, or you could satisfy it. It's your choice_. He knew she was right. Involuntarily, he glanced at the letter that still lay in his numb lap. He moved his legs, trying to regain some sort of feeling into them, and looked up at the rubbish bin that the girl pointed out earlier.

He could do it; he could throw the letter away. He could walk straight over to that bin and drop the letter into its rubbish filled centre and walk away without a backwards glance.

He knew he could do it. He could. He should. He will.

He got up from the swing, the seat swaying from the sudden lack of pressure that held it still for so long. He wobbled slightly on his feet; all the feeling had yet to return to his skinny legs. As he walked over to the bin, the letter wrinkled slightly in his tense grip.

He counted the steps until he reached his destination. Ten more steps. Eight more to go. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. He was right in front of it.

The rubbish bin stood innocently in front of him, its wire was rusted with years of exposure to the winter snows, spring rains, summer's heat, and fall's frost. S lone fly buzzed around the opening of the bin, not daring to go into to collect its meal, frightened it might not come out again.

He stood, transfixed by the circles the fly made in midair; round and round, a never ending cycle. His mind soon drifted away, the fly's buzzing lulling it out of its previous tense state.

If he did do it, if he did throw the letter away, could he really live with the curiosity that would surely follow? Could he deal with the sleepless nights that would come after just simply walking away?

His hand hovered over the opening, intruding into the fly's continuous pattern, making it fly away. His eyes followed the fly until it vanished into the blinding sunlight.

The hand that was raised in the spot once occupied by the fly trembled. He couldn't do it. He knew deep down that he needed to read what was in the letter. He _needed_ to read the words the stranger wrote. He thought back to the words he read mere hours before; could it only be a few hours? It felt like years.

_**What make you think we would never get you letter? The world works in wonders, y'know. **_

He didn't know how, but he just knew, somewhere deep inside of himself, that the person who wrote this letter to him, the person who's hand created these words, knew him in some way. Personaly. Could it be those weird people that suddenly come up and shake his hand, only to disappear an instant after? The ones that Aunt Petunia in terrified of?

_No_, a voice inside of him answered, and he agreed. The person in the letter said his name, his first name. Harry. The weird people always greeted him as 'Mr. Potter'.

He brought his hand back to his side, the letter clasped firmly in his small hand. Harry's eyes scanned the deserted park. Looking for the strange girl again, wondering if she had returned while his mind was momentarily absent. In the very back of his mind, he realized he didn't know her name. He retreated, not back to his swing, but to the bench that was placed a short distance away.

His bottom hit the old wooden bench with a light thump as he sat down on its hard surface. He stared at the letter, bracing himself for what lay inside. He took a deep breath before he opened the letter:

_**What make you think we would never get you letter? The world works in wonders, y'know. You shouldn't be used to that, son; not the way your Aunt and Uncle treat you. There are also so many things that we want to know about you too, kid, there's just so much. But see, you will get to know, if not now, then soon; very soon. And Yes Harry, your Mum was beautiful, the prettiest girl at our school; she was the only girl I ever loved. She had long, fiery red hair, and gorgeous green eyes. Not to boast Harry, but I was strong, I worked out a lot, mostly for my sport activities. And I will admit; you did get your eyesight from me. I wore glasses exactly like you; I had my glasses from a very young age. Now Harry, although I wanted you to look most like your mother, you look most like me. Your Mum always thought you should've looked just like me, but I wanted you to have at least some part of her, so people could see her in you, not just me. You have everything of mine, except the eyes; you have your mothers beautiful green eyes, the ones I always loved. **_

_**We are sorry Harry. We are sorry that we were never there. Never there to hold you when you cried; never there to chase away the monsters out from under your bed, to comfort you when you heard something during the night. We are sorry that you have been left to fend for yourself, with no help from the Dursley's. But Harry, even if we weren't physically there, we were always looking over you, watching you, protecting you from anything that we could. Even if we weren't there to hold you and comfort you, we were, and always will, be there, inside you, helping to guide you. **_

_**We love you Harry, and we are so proud of you.**_

_** Your Parents,**_

_** Lily and James Potter. **_

__Harry noticed he was crying, only when one of the words were blurred slightly from a tear. His parents, his _actual_ parent, wrote to him. He knew inside that this couldn't be a joke; no one could make him feel this way, no one, except his parents. _James, Lily, Lily and James _he recited his parents' names in his head over and over again, trying to get some closer connection with them by those three words.

_**You look most like me. **_His father had said; he looked down at his body, wondering if his father was ever this small. Aunt Petunia never liked his hair, she always complained about it; he wondered if his father had the same exact hair.

_**You have your mothers beautiful green eyes.**_

He never though his eyes were anything that special. He always saw the flaws in himself and never paid much attention to what lay behind the wire framed glasses. The picture of his parents kept growing, becoming more into detail. His Mum had the long, fiery red hair his father, as he assumed who had narrated the letter, wrote about. She had the eyes that he saw every day. His Dad wasn't in that much of detail as his Mum. He assumed that, when he got back to the Dursley's, he would go and study himself in the mirror.

A shadow cast across the parchment in his hands and he looked at the afternoon sun in the sky above. It was almost time for him to cook supper, a small part of his mind automatically thought. Except a larger portion of him mind wondered, could his parents really be up there. Could they really be looking down on him, protecting him? his thoughts went to the times when Dudley would hit him; when he had to run from Dudley and his friends, trying to avoid another "game". Why couldn't his parents protect him from every blow that rained down on him?

_**From anything that we could.**_

Couldn't they protect him from that? If they couldn't protect him from Dudley and his bully friends, what could they protect him from?

Y_**ou will get to know, if not now, then soon; very soon.**_

What did that mean? What will he get to know about them, about the life he never remembered? How? The Dursley's never spoke of his parents, never had any pictures, no memoirs sat about the shiny, clean house that he knew so head hurt from the amount of unanswered questions that was loaded inside his mind.

His head was starting to hurt from the amount of unanswered questions that piled inside his mind. He tried clearing it, but to no avail. He decided to look down at his hands, hoping the change of thought would clear his head a little.

The paper that was held by his hands was now covered in shadow, making the words harder to read. He looked back up at the sun, seeing that half of the ball of fire had set beneath the horizon already. The questions were momentarily forgotten as he jumped up in surprise. Could he have been gone almost the whole day, not straying from the small playground? Could it really be almost nightfall? It couldn't be? But it was. Uncle Vernon would be home soon, much too soon for supper to be ready before he arrived home. Aunt Petunia will be furious, she never liked a delay in the usual routine, and this one is a major delay.

He looked at the letter in his hand. Surely it couldn't come with him. Aunt Petunia was guaranteed to burn it; he wouldn't let that be this letter's fate. He couldn't hide it; Dudley somehow always found his secret items. His only choice was to leave it behind, to stray away, once again, from his parents. He needed to. He looked down at the letter, not surprised that more tears fell from his eyes. He didn't want to leave them, not again, not when he felt so close to them. He looked up at the sun, less than a quarter lit the park. He snapped his head up at the sound of a click. Next to him, a streetlight went on, making up for the dimming sun. He sighed, bracing himself for what he had to do. He neatly set the letter down on the bench that he recently occupied.

"I'm sorry." He whispered at the piece of paper, as if his parents' spirits resided in the folded piece of paper. He looked up at the dark sky that was slightly dusted with early stars. He stepped back from the bench and turned away. He began his journey out of the park, and to the Dursley's.

Not once did he look back.

.

A/N: *Hides* please don't kill me. I'm sorry for the delay. The terrible loooong delay. I had trouble trying to make this flow, so it's not as good as the first chapter but I am still quite proud of it… that's it for this story, till next time.

~ Frissa :)


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